


The Imbroglio

by ironicconcoctions



Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: Drug Addiction, F/F, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Lesbian AU, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow-ish burn, fashion icon!katya, hotel!au, kim chi supporting and loving her mess of a friend, like horrifyingly rich, receptionist!trixie, rich!katya, yall wanted a twist?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-30 19:51:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17835083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ironicconcoctions/pseuds/ironicconcoctions
Summary: Trixie is a receptionist at a high class hotel. Katya is a frequent patron. This is a collection of their various encounters.





	1. Broke

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written fic in a very long time. Like, years. I'm testing the waters out so if it sucks just holler at me and I'll crab walk back into my hole. 
> 
> This should mostly be from Trixie's POV but I may decide to change that up. I'm writing chapter-by-chapter, so whatever I do write will end up being decided on feedback, I guess? I've only written multi-chapter fics. This will be more of a collection of ficlets, but they will have a rhyme or reason to them -- a sense of cohesion, if you will. This is NOT beta-ed.
> 
> This first chapter is just an introduction to how Trixie got the job. Everything else will involve Katya, just trust me :))) lubs yall. xoxo

It was Trixie’s sophomore year in college and she had been struggling to make ends meet. Between having to pay her cellphone bill, her rent, and covering the cost of her books, she barely had enough money to feed herself. 

 

Initially, she had though living off campus would be easier. Her freshman year had been a huge jumble of uncomfortable interactions with her roommate after she had walked in on Trixie and her then-girlfriend kissing. Apparently just because her college advertised inclusivity didn’t mean the students who went there necessarily had the same set of ideals. Trixie had finished the semester slipping in and out of their room only to sleep and change clothes -- just because she had to deal with bigots at home didn’t mean she had to deal with them away from home too. 

 

Kim had been the one to suggest that she find a roommate and start renting somewhere closer to the campus. A lot of the apartments in the area where affordable and fairly upscale for a semi-rundown college town. Maybe the overgrown brambles of the city park and outdated buildings had once been known for being vintage and charming, but in the cold chill of fall, they simply just looked grimy. 

 

But Trixie kind of liked the romance of the city. Often times during her freshman year she would walk down the neighborhood streets with her friends, the Broadway like lights that lined the streets glowed almost green with their electric bulbs, making Trixie feel like she was in a period piece. The pink stung cheeks of her friends from laughter and the slight smell of alcohol on their breath gave her a sense that she was in some romantic comedy where she would stumble into the love of her life one night under these street lights. When she told Kim this over dinner, giggling drunkenly into her friends ear, she had laughed and patted the side of Trixie’s face.

 

But after months of dipping into the money she had saved to bring with her to college, she wasn’t going to have a cash chunk for much longer. Her new roommate had dutifully payed the full amount of rent the last few months without complaint, but Trixie could tell that Pearl’s generosity was running thin after she not-so-subtly kept dropping hints at possibly finding a new roommate (like leaving a literal note that said “If you don’t start paying rent, I’m kicking your ass out. No hard feelings! xoxo” on Trixie’s bathroom mirror one morning) she knew she had to find a job.

 

Somehow, she had literally stumbled across an opening for a receptionist for a swanky hotel not far from her apartment in the older money part of the city. Trixie had been set up on a date with some girl that liked her cat a little too much and kept showing Trixie photos of it curled up in weird spots around her house (ie: the toilet) -- the real issue was that the girl smelled like mothballs and had dirty fingernails and Trixie kind of couldn’t handle it and had told the girl she had to meet with one of her teachers to go over an assignment (a lie) and found herself waddling down an unfamiliar street in a tight black dress (at Kim’s suggestion) and six inch heels feeling like she was about to piss her pants from all the stress water-drinking she had done at the restaurant. The only thing that seemed open that late was a gleaming marble building with a blaring sign above emblazoned with beautiful red script that read  _ “The Imbroglio” _ . Trixie had stumbled in, shielding her eyes from the blinding white of the walls and floor and scuttled into the women’s restroom as soon as she had spotted it. By the time she had finished peeing, she had realized that this probably wasn’t the type of place people just happened by, let alone walked right inside of and found herself quickly fixing her hair in the dim lit mirror and smoothing her dress before opening the bathroom door. 

 

“You’re here for the interview, correct?” a woman asked, scaring Trixie. 

 

She was wearing the same startling white as the walls and had blended in with decor almost seamlessly. Before Trixie could utter anything more than an ‘um’, she was being dragged by the elbow behind the counter and through a door that had looked almost invisible to the naked eye, into a long darkly-painted hallway. Trixie, too confused to protest found herself clambering along to keep up with the much shorter woman and then was being pressed down into a leather padded chair in a plum colored office with bookcase lined walls.

 

“You wait here. The boss will be with you in a minute,” the woman checked her watch and then quickly exited the room. Trixie looked around in shock, before pulling her phone from her bag. 

 

She needed some serious emotional support.

 

**Trixie**

_ kim im losing my shit right now _

 

**Kim**

_ Date THAT bad?  _

 

**Trixie**

_ not even on the date anymore i literally was just tryng to find someplace to pee and i think im getting interviewed??? help!!!! me!!!! _

 

**Kim**

_ Lol girl whatttt! _

 

**Trixie**

_ i have no clue but if i die dont touch my shit ill straight fuck you up _

 

**Kim**

_ Yeah okay, limp wrists. _

 

_ But seriously, what? _

 

Before Trixie could reply, she heard the door behind her open and she shoved her phone back in her bag as fast as possible and got up out of her seat, turning around. A small statured older man nodded at her and motioned for her to sit back in her seat before rounding the desk and sitting behind it. He looked kind, but tired.

 

“Hello,” he said in a very thick Bostonian accent, “I’m Luca,” he reached across the table to shake hands and Trixie leaned into meet him, clasping his rougher and smaller-but-wider hand with her softer yet longer-fingered one.

 

Leaning back in his seat, he crossed his arms over his chest, “Alright, we’re looking for a receptionist. Our last gal retired and this is a reputable place we have. You have to be sociable, you have to be charismatic, but most of all,” he pointed right at Trixie, “ -- you cannot take anyone’s shit. We deal with the up-and-coming, politicians, the affluent, if you will. They have money, so what do you think that means?” 

 

He looked at Trixie pointedly, waiting for an answer. “That they have...deep pockets?”

 

He laughed, “Well, yes. But mostly, they have attitudes. If you work for me, you need to stick up for yourself. You belong here as much as they do.”

 

Trixie felt herself well up with some feeling she hadn’t felt in a very long time. “That’s not something you hear people say in interviews everyday, if I may say that, sir.”

 

“Yes, well, this isn’t a run of the mill place,” Luca shrugged, “Now, tell me about yourself.”

 

“Well, I’m a student. I’m studying international relations with a minor in journalism. I’m hoping to travel and do coverage on live shows, like music and theater performances around the world. Hopefully! I mean, that’s my end-goal,” Luca raised and eyebrow at that, causing Trixie to stumble over her words. “But -- I have a good deal of experience in customer service. I worked for almost three years in high school at a makeup counter and had to service countless different types of people. I’m very comfortable socially. And, like, in general. I guess.” 

 

Trixie continued to ramble about her job history, Luca peppering in questions about her most memorable experiences with certain customers, what she would do if faced with very oddly specific situations, and what her availability would be like. He stopped her with a raised palm, politely cutting her off. 

 

“Do you have your resume with you?”

 

Trixie fumbled with her phone, “No, but I can email it to your office right now,” if what she thought was happening, was happening, she couldn’t believe it. 

 

“Go ahead an email it to me, I’ll have Farrah give you my number and have you fill out some paperwork. For now...I think you would be a good fit for this establishment. But next time you come in for an interview, you need to be better prepared. But you clean up well and seem collected, maybe a little younger than what we had been looking for. But, you seem to know what you’re talking about. What’s your availability?”

 

Trixie couldn’t believe her ears, “I can work anytime, any day, besides Tuesdays and Wednesdays during the morning and afternoons. I have classes those days and I won’t be free until about 3. But otherwise my availability is very, very open.”

 

Luca tapped his pen to his lips, leaning back in his chair. “I think that could work for us. You would be working very long hours, but the pay is very good. Fairly late nights sometimes. Do you think you can handle that?”

 

“Yes,” Trixie felt her chest almost bursting with gratitude, “anything you want.”

 

“Okay. Well, off you go. Farrah should meet you at the front desk,” Luca waved her away, already focused on lighting a cigar he'd pulled from a wooden box on his desk.

 

Trixie fumbled to sling her bag back over her chest and started to go out the door when she heard Luca call after her, “I never got your name, miss!”

 

“It’s Beatrix Mattel, but I go by Trixie.”

 

“Well, Miss Trixie Mattel," Luca smiled, "Welcome aboard.”

 

~

 

**Trixie**

_ kim i just got a fuckin JOB BITCH !!!! _

 

**Kim**

  _What? How much an hour?_

 

**Trixie**

_ 21 sexy fucking dollars and hour. suck on that _

 

**Kim**

_ Holy shit! You bitch! Call me ASAP _


	2. Residents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meet the permanent fixtures of The Imbroglio.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had typed this up, and thought, why not go live? I went back and edited the first chapter so it's probably definitely more readable at this point.
> 
> I really appreciate the feedback you guys. I'm so grateful to be getting back into the swing of things.
> 
> Also! This is my first fic I've ever written with wlw, so thats new too. eeeeeeeeeeek! 
> 
> As always, please let me know if you have any suggestions. More Katya Katya Katya to come next chapter.  
> xoxo lubs yall

The kind of guests that came into _The Imbroglio_ where, to be frank, odd.

 

All of them had oodles of money, that was one thing they had in common, but other than that, it’s like each and every guest had stepped out of their own little part of the world. Which -- they did, but more in the dimensional sense.

 

There was the permanent residents who lived in the hotel. Trixie hadn’t expected this, you would think that people with such money wouldn’t choose to live in a hotel, no matter how nice it was -- Farrah had explained that a lot of them did business so frequently in the city for work that it was more convenient, and the rooms and floors where very spacious. And very, very beautiful. The allure of the older building more times than not had brought people in from the street, it’s starkly elegant contrast against the rest of the city was easy to see even blocks away. The towering, shining building with it’s red sign doubled almost as a lighthouse for those looking for a luxurious place to air their worries away.

 

Sharon lived at the very top floor, in the penthouse. She rarely visited with the staff, but on very late nights, sometimes Trixie could see Sharon smoking in the pool room, alone in her silk dressing gowns, long blonde hair halo-ed messily around her head. She would wade through the pool in her gown, back and forth. Her cigarette dangling between two fingers carelessly, ashing into the water, before emerging like a sea-goddess, silk plastered to her body, and retreating back to her room with regal dripping wet arched feet, a plume of smoke following behind her like a dutiful servant. 

 

Trixie liked Sharon. Her voice reminded her a lot of old movie starlets, and she was always trying to give her almost obscene tips just for sending up more towels to her room. 

 

Another patron, less liked by the staff, was Mr.Chachki. He rarely stayed at the hotel, but his two daughters, Violet and Max, lived in full time. When he did make an appearance, he was more than likely drunk off his feet, stumbling around the foyer in his pinstriped suit, flirting shamelessly with Farrah while she almost always unsuccessfully tried to get him into the elevator and up to his room. Trixie’s personal favorite experience with him was when he told her she reminded him of one of his ex-wives. He had looked at her, glassy eyed, and said:

 

“I would kiss you, but we got divorced for a reason, baby. And that reason...why do you think that is?” And promptly passed out on the floor. 

 

She had laughed her ass off. 

 

Violet was a dancer at a local club and would prowl through the building in Swarovski crystal covered bodices, feather embroidered robes swishing on the white marble floor. Her short cropped black hair curled and sprayed into place. She had visitors at every hour of the day, trailing up and down the staircase with boxes and bags from luxurious shops that Trixie couldn’t even pronounce. 

 

Max was very unlike her sister. She was dainty and ladylike, where Violet oozed confidence. Trixie had only talked to Max a handful of times. She would politely ask, gloved hands curling over the edge of the front desk, if somebody could send a tray of tea to her room, on the odd occasion. She wore a locket around her neck with a photo of presumably her husband inside. The only time Trixie had dared to inquire about it, Violet had shot her the most rotten look from behind her sister in warning, shaking her head. Max had civilly ignored Trixie’s question and had grabbed her mail with shaking hands and trotted off. 

 

But the most memorable guest Trixie had met had been a woman who she had never spoken to before. 

 

The first time she had met her was the first late night shift she had ever worked. The woman had barrelled in, speaking rapid Russian into her cellphone and was motioning wildly with her hands in excitement with every word out of her mouth. She had bag after bag carried in for her, until the foyer was littered with an assortment of brightly colored suitcases and designer emblemed carry ons. She would cover the speaker of her phone and speak quietly into the ear of her assistant, before resuming her call. 

 

Her face and hair where hidden by a dark blue fret print silk scarf, which was knotted tightly at her neck, and huge white glasses. Her plump lips where darkly lined and precisely painted red, standing against the sharp jut of what was visible of her cheeks. She was tall for a woman, not as tall as Trixie, and looked limber. She wore an orange horse-patterned velvet suit tailored to her body with an almost unzipped snakeskin shirt underneath to reveal her toned and flat-chest. It barely covered her nipples. Gold necklaces were layered over each other around her neck, and her hands were embellished with an assortment of jeweled rings. Her shoes where black leather and masculine, but tall with a thick chunky heel, each adorned with a single, strikingly turquoise eye charm on the very toe. 

 

She sauntered to the elevator, her many bags, and staff, in tow. Her assistant had scrambled to check her in under the name “Zamo” before rushing into the elevator behind her, grabbing her purse and keys that where unceremoniously thrown into his arms before the elevator door closed with a soft click.

 

Since then, Trixie had seen the woman dash in and out of the hotel very late at night, always with her cellphone plastered to her ear and her assistant in tow. Sometimes she would be gone for weeks at a time, but she always came back either tanner or looking more exhausted. She never went without her headscarf or her glasses, and never stopped to greet Trixie herself. But it just made her more enigmatic. 

 

Trixie would daydream that one day the woman would stop and chat with her for a brief moment, possibly taking off her sunglasses to reveal glittering, slow blinking eyes and ask for Trixie’s name, pulling her hand from behind the desk to lay a soft kiss on her knuckles with her always red lips.

 

But the woman had yet to stop and say hello herself. 


End file.
